Mrinmoyee Goswami’s story with its poignant narrative is a tender portrayal of the bond between parents and children.
Ever since I remember, Deuta used to spend almost all his spare time in the garden. The government quarter allotted to him came with a big compound, even though the rooms were somewhat inconspicuous. Deuta always woke up very early, and by the time we would be out of our beds, the plants would have been watered, the weeds pulled out. He grew many vegetables too, but it was the flowers that he doted on roses, chrysanthemums, phlox, gladioli, and many more. Because he so dutifully trimmed and pruned the plants, plucked out anything wilted or browning that any wrinkled bloom or leaf immediately caught our attention.
We used to spend our winter vacations in our native village. As soon as our exams were over, Ma and my two elder brothers and I would board the red and white Assam State Transport Corporation bus. Those were the most carefree days of my life. It seemed nothing existed except bathing in the river or building sandcastles on its bank, playing on the haystack, roasting potatoes and brinjals on the fire in the evenings, or just wandering aimlessly all around the village with my cousins.